


An Imposition Upon Her Tragedy

by Jyou_no_Sonoko



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort, Drinking, F/F, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Occult, Strong Female Characters, Trauma, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-22 11:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22016161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jyou_no_Sonoko/pseuds/Jyou_no_Sonoko
Summary: Amidst the threat of the zealot witch-hunters, Zelda visits Mary Wardwell's house to enlist her aid in the fight, but in the process finds herself drawn into Lilith's private tragedy, following the traumatic loss of the latter's fiancé.
Relationships: Adam Masters/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith, Zelda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Comments: 19
Kudos: 91





	An Imposition Upon Her Tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to do something with my painful feelings around Lilith's loss of Adam, just as she was finally beginning to find her genuine personhood again, and thought that Zelda would be just the person to set loose in the scenario. This means that, during the events of "The Missionaries", Zelda would have to still be in Greendale, not yet honeymooning.

Zelda was loathe to admit it, but these witch hunters had her more than a little concerned; isolated attempts by the false god’s minions were one thing, but such a coordinated assault on their numbers, it could not be treated lightly.

Which was why she stood at the entrance to Mary Wardwell’s cottage, gazing up at the structure to assess the woman’s means: it was not as aesthetically noble as the Spellman family home, but that was to be expected from an excommunicate of no notable pedigree, and a schoolmarm for that matter. Still, there was no sense in not utilizing any forces at her disposal, and Wardwell had proven herself a canny practitioner and scholar of the dark arts, her glaring personality flaws aside.

Returning her gaze to the door, poised to knock, Zelda only then noticed that it was slightly ajar. How very careless, especially for a witch. And most especially at a time like this. Could the witch hunters have already gotten here, ahead of her?

Wasting no further time, she cautiously opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her (no sense being just as careless as the home-owner). She heard nothing, though saw in the dining room that the table was still set from dinner – a dinner for two, it seemed. Zelda spared an amused smile: perhaps Wardwell was not so lonely after all.

Then she spun around, such thoughts fleeing her mind, as a terrible shout came from nearby, echoing throughout the house but easy to pinpoint. Whispering a quick protection spell as she strode towards the source, Zelda soon smelled something charred – hair, meat, perhaps more. Following the noise, she heard a desperate sob, just one, and when she arrived in the depressing little bathroom, she found Wardwell, in full evening wear, sprawled on the floor, backed into a corner, her legs splayed out, high heels resting on a twisted bathmat.

The woman was bereft, alternately weeping and whispering to herself, eyes wild and red. Her face was blotchy, her usually luxurious locks roughed up, stray hairs sticking to her smeared red lipstick. She seemed not to even notice Zelda, until the Spellman matriarch spoke her name from the doorway.

“Wardwell. What in Satan’s name is going on?”

Pale, drowned eyes, edged with melted mascara, rolled up to loosely meet Zelda’s. But she said nothing, her lips moving but seeming to lose interest in the idea halfway through.

“Good grief, woman, speak up. Were the witch hunters here?” Despite her words, Zelda’s tone showed far more sympathy than usual; how could it not when the woman lay so wretchedly before her? Normally in a situation like this, she would order a crying soul to pull themselves together. But Wardwell seemed to have moved beyond crying; whatever had happened… it had well-nigh destroyed her.

Growing impatient and even more concerned, Zelda lowered herself into a crouch, her pant suit accommodating the position easily. She reached over a hand, placed it gently on Wardwell’s shoulder, receiving a flinch in response.

“Mary,” Zelda spoke carefully, “You must tell me what happened to you. Let me help you.”

This time, Wardwell’s eyes focussed on her, and the depth of the woman’s grief nearly knocked Zelda backwards off her feet.

“You can’t help me,” she whispered. “Nobody can… nobody ever could. I was so… very foolish, to think otherwise.” Just as she broke contact and her face began to roll away once more, Zelda placed a hand on her strong, angular jaw and forced her to remain in the conversation.

“Is this about the person you were having dinner with? Did they hurt you?”

At this, Wardwell’s eyes welled up and she pulled her head away from Zelda, her throat bobbing as she pulled a hand to her mouth. “No… he…” She was sobbing anew, her voice coming out strangled. “He would never, he was the only one who…” Hard as she tried to hold it in, pressing her fingers over her mouth such that they grew white, her grief could not be contained. A single exclamation escaped her lips: “Adam!” And then she was lost once more in weeping.

Zelda understood more now, but not enough for her liking. Something had happened to this Adam, and he was someone who it seemed meant the world to Mary Wardwell. Yet there was no sign of another person in the house, as far as she had seen, though admittedly her search had not been exhaustive. Then the smell of burnt proteins caught her attention again, and she looked behind her to see a mess of blackened flesh and feathers about the window sill. Well. That would certainly have been the target of a very powerful witch’s yell, such as she had heard earlier: an incinerating shout. Zelda was impressed that Wardwell had access to such primal abilities, though now was hardly the time to be reflecting on such things. This bathroom was doing nobody any good.

She stood up and reached down a hand. “Come my dear, let’s get you out of this ghastly room.”

Shaking and incommunicative, Wardwell gave no indication that she had heard, and so with an aggravated sigh, Zelda set her stance, took hold of the woman’s upper arms, and hauled her to her feet, during which point one of the high heels came loose, causing Wardwell to stumble backwards against the wall. Decisively, Zelda moved to take her about the waist and lead her out of the bathroom, towards the fireplace; thankfully, Zelda noticed, Wardwell was carrying most of her own weight now, though still her head hung and her direction was entirely at Zelda’s whim.

Once they reached the wooden chair before the fireplace, Wardwell had recovered enough to lower herself into it, and Zelda found herself a stool that was off to the side, brought it over to sit where she could easily make out Wardwell’s face, even in the dull light of the room.

“You shouldn’t be here,” came the woman’s whisper. “If the Dark Lord finds you comforting me…”

“The Dark Lord?” Zelda leaned forward, hands clasped in her lap. “What do you mean? What part has He in these matters?”

A mirthless smile swept over the bereft woman’s face, and then was gone off into the shadows. “He has a part in all matters. Every breath that we breathe, it is his to claim, if he so wishes.”

Zelda frowned deeply as more puzzle pieces fell onto the table. “Did the Dark Lord do something to this ‘Adam’ of yours?”

The tightening of Wardwell’s thin lips as she held back another onslaught of tears was answer enough to that question.

This was highly irregular; what could this man could have done to anger Him so greatly, such that he had, by Wardwell’s reaction, almost certainly, and quite suddenly, been put to death? If not worse.

“What did he do, to offend the Dark Lord?”

The earnest question caused a dry, hollow chuckle to sound in Wardwell’s throat: “He wanted to show me the world.” Her voice was quavering still, just a little, but she almost had it fully under control. “He wanted to take me to Tibet.”

Zelda wondered all of a sudden if this Adam were a mortal man; was Wardwell yet another witch who had fallen into fancy with someone beneath her? Even so, it was not the Dark Lord’s modus operandi to strike down mortal suitors whenever they sprang up; otherwise, Sabrina’s precious Harvey would have been long since removed from the picture. No, there had to be more to it.

Wardwell had set her gaze on the fireplace, which sat cold and blackened, as if willing it to light up, but making no move towards achieving it. Zelda uttered a spell at it, gesturing the flames into being with a flourish of the wrist. The flickering light danced on Wardwell’s large, pale eyes as she continued to stare, and to speak.

“He wanted to heal people, of all things. He was almost too good a human being. And yet, there he was… loving me.” The raw emotion in those words made Zelda’s chest tighten, and her hand moved to cover the feeling. “Giving me everything I never knew I wanted. Everything I needed.” Wardwell lowered her face from the fire, closed her eyes with the most controlled of frowns. “And now he’s gone. For no reason other than to scold me for thinking I could be happy, that I dared think of living a single day free from fear and insecurity.” Her hands were trembling again in her lap, and she quickly clasped them together, willing herself to remain collected. “Because I committed the sin of loving someone other than the Dark Lord, Adam was the one who had to bear the brunt of his fury. And here… still… am I. A weak, broken… pathetic woman. With nothing more to lose, and no freedom to choose, that much has been made abundantly clear.”

Zelda waited to be sure that the woman had finished unburdening herself, then said in a firm, clear voice: “You are neither weak nor pathetic, Mary Wardwell. You are a powerful witch. And powerful women such as we cannot be broken by such moments.” She stood and went over to lay a hand on Wardwell’s shoulder. “We bear them, we mourn… and we move on. It is our way.”

She spoke with the certainty she normally reserved for assessing her own strength of character; once again, for all her personality flaws, Wardwell had always seemed poised and confident, never afraid to make her opinion sharply known. Even if her involvement in Sabrina’s life had irked Zelda greatly, there was no denying that the woman was normally a force to be reckoned with. And she would be again.

Wardwell relaxed a little beneath her touch, as though her words had rung true, straightened up in the chair and raised her chin. “Perhaps that’s true. As if there were any other choice. Perhaps pain is as much a part of my life as any other vital function. I may as well make peace with it.”

The usual drawl was returning to Wardwell’s voice, which made Zelda feel it would be safe to further discuss the issue. She went back to her place on the stool, feeling the warmth from the fire pass through one half of her body. “There’s something I don’t understand, though: why has He punished you so severely for taking a mortal lover? It’s an embarrassing though hardly uncommon occurrence. He frowns upon it, but does not usually take such drastic measures.”

Wardwell swept an amused gaze up Zelda, to the other woman’s curious eyes. “It might surprise you to know this, but… I’m not your run-of-the-mill witch.”

Zelda scoffed. “That does not surprise me in the least.”

“No? Well what if I told you that the Dark Lord has special plans for me, which he does not like to have ignored.”

That did surprise Zelda. But then again, the same seemed to be true of Sabrina. Now was everyone but herself the object of His interest? It would not do to feel jealous, though Zelda knew herself to be more than worthy of His attention, even if she outwardly expressed modesty about the fact.

Clearly her thoughts were readable on her face, as Wardwell raised an already arched brow and smirked. “That’s what I thought. Well, I suppose there’s no accounting for His taste, is there?” It was faint praise, but Zelda certainly noticed it, appreciated it even.

“What are these ‘special plans’ you speak of? It seems odd to me that no frisson of this has been mentioned by the High Priest. And as you know, I do somewhat have his ear.”

“Yes, congratulations on your snare, I’m sure. But unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say. There are some things about me that must be kept, well, mysterious.”

“Oh come now. Not to be rude, but I find it hard to believe that someone with your rather dismal social standing–”

“I’m afraid you are being quite rude,” Wardwell cut her off. Her poise was fully back now, with only the redness around her eyes betraying the state she had so recently been in. “I must apologise for behaving so terribly in front of you, I assure you… it won’t happen again.” Languidly, with thin, muscular arms, she pushed herself upright, stood firmly on sturdy hips, and gestured towards the front door. “Thank you for your kindness, Ms Spellman. It will not be forgotten.”

But Zelda stayed put. Despite the very final words which would normally simply have to be followed for reasons of social etiquette, her curiousity was far too piqued, and she was willing to commit a breach of courtesy.

“That mess of feathers on the bathroom window, what was that?”

Wardwell made an annoyed face but answered anyway. “My familiar. He was a traitor. Maybe I shouldn’t have reacted so strongly, after all he was a simple-minded creature who could never for a moment defy his master’s master. But sometimes, emotions run too strong to pull back.”

Zelda felt slightly sheepish as she recalled the number of times she had let her emotions explode all over Hilda, resulting in many, many deaths, most of them violent. Each time left her feeling churlish and irritated with herself, but there was nothing for it. “I am… somewhat au fait with such things. And a familiar is worth nothing if it is not loyal, after all.”

“I’m glad you understand. Now if you please,” she gestured once again, "I’m very tired, as you might imagine. And I must clean house before I can rest.“

The words were out of Zelda’s mouth before she knew it, and they were entirely out of character. “Let me help you clear the table. I’d feel quite improper to just leave you to clean up alone after such a gruelling evening.”

Wardwell’s eyes widened and she tilted her head, as though about to issue a final demand for privacy, but it never came. Instead, she put a hand to her hip and shook her head in amusement. “You Spellmans are a very strange breed. Every other time I’ve met you, you’ve made no secret of your dislike for me, and yet here you are, getting all domestic.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Zelda replied, with her own look of dry amusement, “I dislike most people. Until they prove themselves worthy of my esteem.”

“Should I be flattered, then? Has the sight of my,” she waved a hand in the direction of the bathroom, “humiliating episode… somehow made me go up in your estimations?”

“There’s nothing wrong with feeling. It is how we recover from it that distinguishes us.”

Wardwell bobbed her head graciously. “Then I’m glad to have distinguished myself. Now, if you insist on taking part in the domestic rituals, let’s get it over with. I’m sure you have more important things to get back to. I seem to recall you mentioning something about witch hunters, did I hear that right?”

Zelda was already efficiently gathering up the plates and cutlery, including the especially bloody knife which lay beside a covered plate. “You did indeed. There seems to be a disturbingly coordinated effort by a gang of young zealots. Frothing Christians, far more dangerous than your regular witch hunter, motivated by their own selfish ends. These deluded children think they are doing ‘the Lord’s work’.”

Wardwell was folding up napkins and putting away the dinner candles. “Yes, there’s no telling what such insanity will lead to. I assume your Church of Night has sufficient wards against invasion?”

“I trust Father Blackwood has seen to that. But that was in fact why I came here in the first place, to enlist your aid in our defense, and preferably our offense. One can never be too careful when there are so many unknown values strewn about.” She reached for the covered plate, intending to pile it on top of the other plates to save herself another trip to the kitchen, when:

“Leave that!” Wardwell’s eyes were desperate, but she quickly composed herself. “I’m sorry, but that piece is… something of an heirloom. And I prefer to handle it myself, if that’s all the same to you, hm?”

Ruffled but shaking it off, Zelda lifted her jaw. “Of course. One’s inheritance is always to be treasured. I shall leave it to you.” She could not help but notice, however, that Wardwell’s hands were now shaking, making her insistence on carrying the plate seem a little ill-advised. Still, she kept mum, as was the polite thing to do.

Silently, the two of them carried their items to the kitchen, and Zelda scraped the bones into the trash, then set the plates in the sink. Wardwell guardedly placed her charge off to the side, to be dealt with later. Then the two of them returned to the dining room and began folding up the table cloth, each taking an end.

“I think you should come by the mortuary tomorrow morning. Make it early, since we all have classes to get to. We shall map out a clear line of attack against this threat, and have it dealt with cleanly and quickly.”

“That does seem to be the sensible action, yes.” Wardwell’s voice had grown disinterested in the conversation, but she was going through the motions just the same, which was enough for Zelda, under the circumstances.

As they moved to the side of the table, bringing the corners of the tablecloth together, Zelda watched the focussed detachment of Wardwell’s severe, weathered face, and renewed sympathy stirred in her chest: the woman shouldn’t be alone tonight, in this empty house. Who was to say that she would not be immediately overcome by her grief once more? Zelda was not inclined to take that risk. Though she would never admit it, she did not know how she would survive without the constant companionship of her diverse little family. Even as they galled her, they gave her a reason to be strong, to exist. What did Wardwell have, with no more Adam, and no more familiar? It would simply not do.

“I’d be quite willing to take a nightcap if you care to offer one. My sister is dreadfully insistent that I stick to tea before bed, but I find that a good whiskey can be far more pleasant. I have a feeling that you might share that assessment.”

Wardwell pursed her lips then slipped one half between her teeth, gazed from under lowered browse as she considered Zelda’s continued imposition in her home, and now potentially on her reserves. “Well I suppose that’s only fair, since you dirtied your hands on my behalf.” She went over to an antique wooden cabinet and withdrew a suitably distinguished bottle. She placed it on the now bare table and moved to fetch tumblers from the kitchen.

“No need,” came the succinct comment from Zelda, and she froze her saunter, which had by this point regained its balance in regaining its high heel.

She gave a curious tilt of the head: “As you wish.”

Once both were seated at opposite ends of the table, Wardwell took the bottle and leaned back in her chair, legs crossed in her habitual sumptuous manner. She fixed her eyes on Zelda as she unscrewed the lid and brought the bottle up to rest against her still-red bottom lip as she spoke.

“Tell me, Spellman, what are your plans for the High Priest? I can’t imagine you’re actually in love with him.”

Zelda scoffed. “Of course I’m not. The High Priest is merely a convenient stepping stone. Although that is not to say he is not an occasionally enjoyable place to stand.”

Wardwell’s smile spread against the bottle’s neck and she tipped it back to drink, then withdrew, quietly laughing into the bottle. “It’s about time that man had someone stronger than a cocker spaniel at his side. He was becoming far too conceited for a mere man.”

“I will thank you to speak more respectfully of our esteemed Father Blackwood,” the scolding was not especially convincing, as she leaned over to accept the proffered bottle. “Even if he is just a man,” sensual memories coloured her voice, “he does bring some delicious play into my life.” She raised the bottle, then saw Wardwell through the glass, immediately lowered it. “Oh, I’m sorry! That was very thoughtless of me, discussing such things when you’ve been through so much.”

Wardwell, with her eyes averted, smoothed a thick chestnut wave away from her cheek. “Think nothing of it. Though you should really be aware,” her gaze returned, insistent, “that man is not to be trusted. He believes to the core of his arrogant soul that women, all women, are beneath him. And he won’t hesitate to cast you aside if he feels you’re becoming too… disobedient. For his liking.”

Zelda let the remarks slide; after all, Wardwell’s assessment didn’t seem a wildly inaccurate character study. But she couldn’t let herself worry about such things. Having said that…

“How do you know so much about Father Blackwood? Being as you’re neither from our coven nor part of any affiliated church.”

Wardwell raised a brow and reached over to reclaim the bottle before replying. “The spirits whisper in the winds,” she drawled cryptically. “Talk is not confined to human lips.”

“That may be so. But you’ve never even met the man.”

Again, Wardwell’s laughter was in the bottle, as she drunk deep of it. “Oh my dear, I’ve met the man. In all his preening glory.”

Zelda held back her impulse to demand how someone of Wardwell’s station could be honoured by such an audience. “On what occasion, if I may ask?”

“More than one. None of which have given me any reason to respect him. No offense to you, my dear, but I have seldom shared the company of someone so distasteful. He is anathema to everything I stand for.”

That statement sounded very high and mighty, coming from a small town witch who sunlighted as a high school educator. Taking her turn with the bottle, Zelda frowned deeply as inebriation worked its way into her veins. “I don’t think I understand what exactly your driving forces amount to. You tutor mortal children and serve the Dark Lord. What more could you stand for than those duties?”

Even as she said it, Zelda knew she was speaking woundingly, and she saw the words hit Wardwell in the chest.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“Not at all.” She straightened up. “Why should you know anything about me? I’m not exactly… forthcoming. At least not in any meaningful way.” She looked at Zelda side on, leaving the whiskey in her hands. “It’s not in my nature, at least not anymore. I’ve learnt that it’s much more useful to keep the depths of ones… experience… concealed. I’m afraid I’ve already revealed too much of myself to you tonight.” Her face crinkled as a thought came over her: “I suppose I’ll have to kill you.”

Once again at the bottle, Zelda paused and set it down. “I’d like to see you try, witch.” She spent the briefest moment sternly facing her down, then broke down into cackling. The mere idea was too funny – far funnier perhaps than it had any right to be.

Wardwell was laughing too, her face reddening as she propped herself upon a stiffened arm, her hand upon a revealed thigh. Through her mirth, she managed a quavering sigh, and steadied herself, though her voice still came through a grin. “All right, Zelda Spellman. I’ll make you a deal.” She cleared her throat, as though convincing herself to carry on. “You finish that bottle… and I’ll tell you a secret.”

Zelda looked in feigned shock at the considerable quantity of whiskey remaining. “What is this, a college frat party? Spellman women don’t drink on command.”

Wardwell leaned forward, cradling her jaw in an upturned palm. “It’s a really good secret. I think you’ll be quite tickled to hear it.”

Zelda made a show of indignation and reluctance, but she was cursed by her need to know everything about everyone and knew she could never hold out. Thank the Dark Lord that Hilda wasn’t here to see this…

Wardwell watched, propped on both palms now, her bosom resting on the table, her hooded eyes laughing with the pleasure of Zelda’s compliance. By contrast, the alcohol hadn’t seemed to strip Wardwell of much, if any, of her sobriety, laughing fit notwithstanding.

Zelda pushed the bottle, impressively dry, to the middle of the table. Her vision tried to swim and she blinked it back, about as effectively as one might try to wrangle a puddle. “I hope this little wager was worth it, you’ll not likely find another bottle of that vintage. It seems quite classless to waste it on a juvenile dare.”

She knew Wardwell could hear the slur in her voice, it was one thing she could never truly hide when she drank imprudently. Which was why she normally kept quiet around Hilda after having done so, answering only in nods and dismissive throat sounds.

“I’ll let you decide if it was worth it.” There was a definite purr in the woman’s voice, and Zelda found herself enjoying it. “Shall we retire to the fireplace? It’s far more appropriate for my story.”

Zelda wanted to protest, knowing that her steps may look unsteady, but she was not about to admit that, and so made her way as gracefully as possible, pretending to take note of the furniture by touching it on her way.

Once they arrived at the fireplace, Wardwell opted not for her chair, but to sit on the rug, closer to the warmth of the flames, her slender legs folded out to one side. And Zelda joined her, agreeing that this did indeed feel more appropriate.

“Now… here’s the thing about my secret: in order for me to tell you, you must absolutely swear that you will carry it to your grave.”

“You know, that will be a delightfully long time.”

“I trust it will be. Nevertheless, you must swear.” Wardwell’s voice was lilting, but she was quite firm in her request. “Or else I’ll just have to leave myself a mystery. And you’ll have to go home, all so… horribly… unsatisfied.”

What was this flavour in the school witch’s cadence, this seductive, honeyed tone? Was she honestly trying to persuade Zelda Spellman, head of the illustrious Spellman family, with the same tawdry wiles she used to ensnare mortal men? Ridiculous!

“I assure you, I have full control over whatever satisfaction I might desire.”

The look on Wardwell’s face told Zelda that her words had been selectively interpreted and she humphed.

“Anyway. I’ve played your game. Now follow your own rules and tell me.”

With a coy smile, and quite unnecessarily, Wardwell re-positioned her bare shins to the other side of her silk-clad hips. “Right you are, Ms Spellman. I’m a witch of my word.”

“Oh for hell’s sake, just call me Zelda. You’ve already gotten me drunk, there’s no need to cling to formality.”

Wardwell nodded in acquiescence. “Well. You’ll remember my familiar? The one I rather messily did away with over there?”

“I do.”

“I never did tell you his name, did I? It was Stolas.”

“Named after Lilith’s familiar, I gather. No mere goblin, as many think, but a powerful demon, indentured to Lilith out of respect for her determination, and admiration of her skills.” In any circumstance, Zelda would not miss an opportunity to display her academic credentials.

“Very good. Yes, the very same. That demon followed Lilith through the wastes, guarding her while she slept and aiding her in casting. Together they made those years of meager survival quite tolerable. Entirely unlike that… questionable piece of theatre that made its way on stage at the academy.”

Zelda frowned, met Wardwell’s gaze. “I didn’t know you were there. I know it wasn’t exactly… faithful. To our scriptures. But Father Blackwood was ever so enamoured with his interpretation.”

“And so you must be aware of the extent of his vanity.”

“I suppose I am… and I’m sorry that you had to see that. Given your choice of naming, you must hold Lilith in the greatest regard.” She swallowed her embarassment at being a vital part of the pageantry. “As indeed do I, of course, and every witch with an adequate cognisance of history. She is an inspiration to us all. And as women, I believe it is our duty to emulate her strength, in all that we do.”

Abruptly, Zelda worried that she might be rambling, or indeed proselytizing, but looking up at Wardwell, she saw that pleasure was all over the woman’s angular face. Clearly she whole-heartedly shared those beliefs, and was too a disciple of Lilith. That is, as secondary to the Dark Lord Himself, of course.

Her eyes glimmering in the firelight, Wardwell leaned forward. “I’m glad to hear that. So… what if I were to tell you that I didn’t name that deceased raven? That it was his name already?”

Zelda chuckled. “I’d say it was rather vain of him, not only to insist upon his own name, but to choose one so grand.”

Even closer, the other woman moved, her voice growing more conspiratorial. “And what if I were to tell you… that it was his name, from the very beginning?”

Zelda shook her head, trying to make sense of the words. “What do you mean, the very beginning?”

“I mean the beginning of time. Before any familiar accompanied any witch down her dark path. Before that pact had ever been made.” Inching forward by her hands, Wardwell now virtually whispered in her ear: “Before even… the Dark Lord fell.”

Zelda frowned intensely; it made no sense what the woman was saying, and it had nothing to do with the whiskey. What Wardwell was suggesting, it was lunacy. “You… claim to have had, as your own familiar, whom you killed–”

“Twice, as it happens.”

“Twice… the original Stolas… companion to the mother of all witches… Lilith, herself.”

Though Zelda could not see it, she heard Wardwell’s wide smirk in her whisper: “The very same.”

At their closeness, Zelda suddenly felt uncomfortable and sidled back a touch. “I’m sorry, but… that’s quite impossible. The demon Stolas would never serve anyone but Lilith. He swore it, on his life.”

Wardwell stayed still, in her sultry half-crawl, and smiled with her eyes. “That’s entirely correct.”

“But that would mean…”

“Yes?”

“That’s blasphemy, Wardwell!” Zelda pushed herself up, attempting to stand hurriedly and finding out very quickly that that was not to be. Instead she knelt in outrage. “What you’re suggesting is as offensive as it is insane! How dare you say such things. Especially to me. Especially after how kind I’ve been to you!”

Wardwell shifted her weight to one arm, so that she could reach out the other to rest it on Zelda’s knee. “You have been kind to me. Which is not something I could say of many people. Certainly not of my first husband… Adam.”

Zelda put a hand to her spinning head. “That’s enough! I won’t hear anymore of this heresy.”

Wardwell moved her hand to Zelda’s forehead. “Sshhh… it’s all right. Just look at me.”

And at that, Zelda felt her mind filled with thousands, millions of images, of a life before time. A lifetime in the Garden, a lifetime in the wastes… the cruelty of Adam, then the fleeting kindness of Lucifer, then years of solitude, and then… this new Adam. This shining light that gave more warmth than any hearth. And then his death. The snuffing out of that precious hope. That last bit of resistence, crushed underhoof.

She found that tears were pouring down her face, the weight of those condensed experiences, the emotional brutality, bearing down on her such that she felt she would break. And then she realised that there was an arm around her, holding her close as she wept at not only the enormous suffering conveyed to her, but at her own ignorance, her own smallness in this story of aeons.

“Forgive me, Dark Mother, I should have known. My disrespect is inexcusable. I deserve any punishment you care to meet out to me.”

“Now none of that. If you know me at all, you should know that I believe in the right of every woman to speak her truth. And really, I should be flattered by how passionately you fight to protect my name.”

Still Zelda shook her head and pulled free, not wishing to accept mercy after she had hurled insults at the First Witch, at the Mother of Demons, at Lilith herself. She bowed so that her forehead touched the floor. “Please punish me as you wish it.”

“Silly witch,” the purr came, far closer than expected, and Zelda felt the warm hand of Lilith raising her chin – in much the same way that she, Zelda, had so ignorantly done, not long ago, in the bathroom, when she faced what she thought was the grief-stricken shape of a common witch, but was actually…

The kiss met her forehead and somehow, suddenly, the fear and shame left her. She finally understood. She knew that it didn’t matter, that Lilith was millennia old and she barely centuries. She understood that kindness between women transcended concerns of nobility, of social ranking and such pettiness. The touch of empathy, that was all that mattered.

Zelda sat up, calm and sober, though still tears sparkled in her eyes. “Lilith… I never thought, in a million years, that I would meet you. Even though it is understood that the Dark Lord visits among us as he pleases… I’ve only ever heard of you as a far off presence.”

“Yes…” There was a sadness in that weathered voice. “That… is how He prefers matters. He’d rather I be… not seen. And not heard.” She sighed. “It’s part of our arrangement. The plan I told you he has for me.”

Zelda felt anger stirring, aware now of the injustice of Lilith’s situation. “Far be it for me to question His plans, but–”

“Oh feel free, I certainly question them all the time. And look where it’s gotten me!” She laughed, waved her hands at the empty house, the hidden carnage, her own bruised spirit. “There is no escape for me, sweet Zelda. This is the bed I made, and I have to lie in it. No matter how cold it is. Or if He ever again deigns to lie next to me.”

Zelda found herself moving back towards Lilith’s embrace, distantly surprised at her brazenness as she wrapped an arm around the Dark Mother’s back, hugging her. “No one deserves to lie in a cold bed alone. Least of all you.”

“Then perhaps, just for one night, you’ll lie in it with me.” And then Lilith, Greatest of Witches, the very first woman, was kissing Zelda Spellman, a small witch from a small country, on the lips. And there was no part of her that wanted to resist.[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/0c09583bc267533fccea874ce116bfdc/tumblr_pt7u04rhyI1qctvaco3_400.gifv)[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/14ac6bba7fe794de7b48c597612c9113/tumblr_pt7u04rhyI1qctvaco4_400.gifv)


End file.
